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AditiKo May 27
The ornate rosewood clock
Chimed 12 midnight;
Tick tock tick tock...
Echoed back lavish papered walls.

Only the soft candlelight
Bore witness to the scarlet stained walls;

The anguished muffled cry
Drowned by the midnight chime.

It knew when to strike.

At midnight.
The moon shines over some blood every night.

I'm usually not this creepy kay.
In the mellowest light of lilac hours
Dewed branches glimmer in lifefull spectre,
Nurture the sight and feed the body
Rose - clinking hushes the early morning's
Insect hustle and shuts down the micro - worlds
It is time for us to repose
Nature wreaths the mind in million lighted
Colours of youth - lasting spring, like web
It spreads through us till we are but foam of images.
Jillian Jesser Oct 2018
Sunday morning,
and the sun is peaking through the blinds
after a long sleepless night.

The monster that hung over my head all night
is sticking around for the light, it seems,
and it is scaring my Pothos'.

As they wilt,
I am changing the song that's playing,
It's too haunting, too obvious.

An old friend, this specter has become.
I laugh as he spills my coffee.
Sally A Bayan Mar 2018
.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin' a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain... discontent, oh, so apparent...
.....when i hold my when my soul
breathes and journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens

........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018
Journey of Days Nov 2017
felt you
ooze in
heard your soul
scratching and jangling
as it shuffled in
behind me
inserting yourself
into the nothing left between me and the door
and you just hover
a spectre
seen but unseen
felt your form
flick of hair
the false nails
and cigarettes barely disguised with gum
with bag stylishly slung
I don’t need to see you
to know you are there
inserting yourself
into the nothing left between me and the door
and you just hover

you know those real life spectres that hover
seen but unseen
you know they are there….hover
Joshua Scott Dec 2016
I saw a ghost in my room
As the sun rose
He drifted near as I sat up in bed
I could see him in the mirror
Mocking me
Whispering lies
Or truths I refused to hear
I told him he died long ago
between forgotten memories
And pointless feelings
And he said "No, I'm just sleeping. For a while longer still."
And he faded away
Into the morning air
What have I done?

A calamity has befallen me.

My heart lies impaled by a blade of my own design, beating in agony.

Across from me I see her, huddled over the blade, her hands crimson from its edge.

Her tears descend upon my heart like broken stars, burning into the flesh, down to its very core.

What have I done?

Amid her shrieks of pain, I speak words of remorse.

Amid her words of sorrow, I try to mend what has been broken.

But I have exhausted myself. I haven't the strength to lift my heart off of the blade.

In the midst of my struggle, I see a figure, one who I believe at first to be the Solitude, come to torment me with my failures.

But it does not speak.

Where the Solitude mocks me, the figure remains silent.

Where the Solitude glares harshly into my soul, the figure merely gazes.

It does not show its face, but it breeds a sense of familiarity.

A Spectre, in my own image.

With ease, it lifts my heart from the blade, but with its touch, the heart turns black.

It is devoid of any other hue, engulfing the cracks and scars that plagued its surface, it is unified by darkness.

It is beyond recognition.

The Spectre extends the beating void to me, in silent offering.

But I refuse.

I shall not allow myself to succumb to the cold absence it will bring.

I would rather endure, if only barely.

Yet, as I turn away, I see her. The one who once held my affection.

The one who tore down my fortress. The one who showed my future in her eyes. The one who left laughter and serenity in her wake.

With another.

Turning back, I take the creation of the Spectre, without hesitation.

As it takes its place, I hear the echoes of all the tender words she once spoke to me, yet they carry a harsh timbre.

I feel the fire of passion I once carried, yet it creates only ice.

I see the memories once cherished, but they have become pale and morbid.

"What is this feeling?" I ask the Spectre.

I cannot see its lips, but I know it smiles at the inquiry, before uttering a single word:

Peter Balkus Oct 2015
James Bond is cool
but I'm not sure
the armed guy should be the one
to rule,
to save a belle
from hell.

A man with a gun - it could be anyone,
not only Bond.
But guns are wrong,
and we all know, it won't
make world a better place, oh no.
Violence is not the way.

I'd like to see Prince William as James Bond,
with bunch of flowers in his hands,
instead of gun.
That would be fun.

And Duchess Kate
as real Bond's girl,
always a smile away from her man.

That would be great.
Cecil Miller Sep 2015
A wailing ghost has found you.
Foolishy, you hoped to be free.
But that is how it plays with you.
A cat and mouse game, you see.

However did you get as far
In the frosty, wintry night
Without knowing your ache would return?
How could you think you'd be alright?

The haint is on your back,
And chillishly shrilling in your ear.
Maybe you did not bury your deeds deep enough.
Perhaps that is why you fear.

The awesome hatred is poured into your cup.
A spectral accusation never is one in vain
If it closely resembles the truth.
The guilty perish, for crimes that are never named.
The beginning of fall, and the forward momentum toward my favorite holiday, have begun.
An Aussie digger
killed in battle
but disinclined to die
returns to the front line
as a spectre
wearing a slouch hat
and a larrikin grin.

Draped in a tattered flag
he yells
'Remember Korea, lads
and Vietnam
and how we went
all the way
with Menzies and L.B.J.'

'Don't forget Gallipoli
or the fight for peace
with George
in Iraq and Afghanistan
against Al Qaeda
and the Taliban.

'Defeat the enemy
to secure the future
as our heritage
of service
patriotism and pride
in U. S foreign policies.'
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